Pliable
by toujourspret
Summary: You know what they say about assumptions….


**Pliable**

Somewhere along the way, he's mistaken cool poise for experience, pliability for interest, and now that he's finally got the boy all to himself—_"I've got a hotel room, if you'd like to share?"_—he finds he's not quite what he'd expected. There's a sweet blush spilling across those perfect cheekbones, and the way he'd tentatively tested the spring of the bed when he thought Quatre wasn't looking was downright adorable. Quatre'd smiled as comfortingly as he could, chalked it up to his radar being easily influenced by blinding beauty—wishful thinking—and resigned himself to sleeping, fully clothed, on top of the blankets.

Trowa's shy, that's for certain. There's that blush, the way the eyes are averted…but there's promise in the way they dart back to Quatre's face when he lays down outside the sheets, toeing off his shoes and stretching back to lean against the headboard. "Quatre? I thought—" that rich, quiet voice trails off, leaving him wondering exactly what Trowa wants. "I thought…never mind."

"What is it, Trowa?"

"I thought…well, I mean, you _did_ offer to let me stay with you," Trowa mumbles, cheeks flaring. "In your hotel room," he clarifies.

"Of course! You were probably going to sleep in your truck, and I really hate sleeping in a new city all by myself. Plus with the mission tomorrow," Quatre pauses, trying to figure out how to phrase the vague desire that had been creeping up on him since meeting the quiet boy. "We don't know what will happen tomorrow, and even though I haven't really known you very long, I wanted to spend some time with you, just in case. I really like you, Trowa." The admission is barely a breath, shakily drawn out and covered with the best imitation of a friendly smile Quatre can manage.

"I see."

Quatre feels his cheeks burn, wishing there was some way he could hide under the bed without having to move or draw further attention to his awkwardness. He wishes the mattress would just part—maybe even the floor beneath it, and the floor beneath that, all the way down to the subbasement where the trucks were hidden, maybe even the earth itself—and let him wallow in his pathetic crush alone. Instead, the mattress shifts and Trowa's face looms above his own, determined.

Lips seal over his in a clumsy, forceful kiss, tongue pressed wet and squirmy against his lips like some sort of creature begging entrance. He's so shocked that he doesn't react until Trowa's sitting back, lips shiny with saliva and eyes dark and shifty with embarrassment. "I'm sorry," Trowa murmurs, and his blush darkens. "I thought…I assumed…."

And suddenly, it just _makes sense_—they're each waiting for the other to make the first move, and bravery like that just can't go unrewarded. Quatre smiles softly, reaching for Trowa's face and pulling it to his own. "Have you never…?" he asks quietly, guiding Trowa to look at him. Trowa shakes his head, a subtle 'no', and Quatre's smile widens. "Come here."

He leans in, but Trowa bumps noses with him, clacks teeth together and catches lips painfully in his eagerness and inexperience. Trowa pulls back, shifts away, frowns at the way he can't even do something so simple, but Quatre follows, and he's pressed to the bed at the shoulders, the blond leaning over him with swollen lips and bright eyes.

"Relax," Quatre whispers against his ear. "Just follow my lead. Close your eyes." Breathing deeply for courage, he presses soft lips against Trowa's, sliding slickly over lips half-opened in a strangled moan. There are fingers wrapped behind Trowa's neck and around his waist, his own hands pressed flat to the bed as if looking for something to ground him. Quatre's lips tease and press, and before he's even consciously picked up the rhythms he's surging back, panting breathlessly against him, eyes slitting open to shyly ask if he's doing alright.

With lips and tongue and half-panted breaths shared between them, Quatre coaxes a low, rumbling moan from him. There are fingers under the hem of his shirt and clutching at the small of his back and in the waistband of his trousers and—! Trowa jerks back from the kiss, startled, staring heavy-lidded at the innocent-looking boy who was….

"What're you…?" Trowa mumbles at the same time as Quatre squeaks a mortified, "I was just…!"

"I…sorry," Quatre's voice is small as he retreats to stand awkwardly by the door to the bathroom. The room's too small as it is, but he's fighting an overwhelming urge to run. "I. I forgot?"

Trowa blinks, feeling his pulse racing in his throat, at his wrists, in his lower lip, which feels full and heavy and lush. His tongue darts out to test how swollen it is, and he's amused to see Quatre's eyes follow it. "I was just surprised. You're so," he pauses, searching for the word. "…forward."

Quatre's whole face fills in pink, but he shuffles back over to the bed and sits down on the corner, still perched for flight. "I guess I am," he admits sheepishly, tucking his chin to his collarbone and hiding behind his hair. "I just…. Trowa is _really_ attractive…."

Startled by the giddy rush that washes over him at the confession, Trowa leans forward and grabs Quatre's hand, smoothing it between his own palms. His lips form around a response, but he can't think of what to say, so he simply brings the small hand to his lips. Quatre's eyes are luminous as he looks up, and Trowa smiles. "It's okay. I like forward."


End file.
